


Like A Disease

by dawnstruck



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst & Humor, Basically Zombie Apocalypse, Croatoan, Derek's POV, F/M, M/M, Supernatural AU: Croatoan/End'verse, Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 10:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawnstruck/pseuds/dawnstruck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don’t know where it came from.</p><p>One day there were obscure reports about sudden outbreaks of violence all over the place, violence that started spreading, like a virus, like a disease. Until one mild evening in April… it reached Beacon Hills.<br/>There were graffiti all over the town, words carved into trees and park benches, letters written in blood. And they all spelled out the same thing: Croatoan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like A Disease

**Author's Note:**

> This story still makes sense even if you are not familiar with the End 'verse of Supernatural. All you have to know is that there is a virus called Croatoan that is transmitted by blood and that causes all infected to be especially violent, first as sentient beings and then degrading into a zombie-like state.  
> This future fic is set in the aftermath of Croatoan and deals with the survival of the pack.

They don’t know where it came from.

One day there were obscure reports about sudden outbreaks of violence all over the place, violence that started spreading, like a virus, like a disease. Until one mild evening in April… it reached Beacon Hills.

The officials didn’t know what had happened. No one knew what had happened. There were graffiti all over the town, words carved into trees and park benches, letters written in blood. And they all spelled out the same thing: Croatoan.

In 2014 it had conquered their whole world. Maybe there were still some remote places, deserts or islands, that were left untouched. But everywhere else had been consumed by chaos.

The upside was that werewolves were immune to it. The downside: no one else was.

 

“He should have accepted the bite when he had the chance.”

“Shut up, Jackson,” Erica hisses, but he only sends her a half-hearted glare, “It’s true.”

“You know damn well that the Sheriff never wanted to be turned.”

“You mean, just like  _he_  doesn’t want it?” Jackson gives a harsh nod over to where Stiles is sitting slumped against the wire fence, “I bet right now he wishes his dad would have said yes months ago.”

“Shouldn’t someone take the shotgun from him?” Isaac asks with a frown, nervously eyeing the way Stiles’ fingers are gingerly curled around the rifle propped up in front of him, “That’s the one the Sheriff used, isn’t it?”

“Let him have it if he wants to,” Derek cuts in, “And stop talking about it. Just because he can’t hear you doesn’t mean he won’t notice you staring.”

“Once he’s wiped his tears off maybe,” Jackson scoffs, though there are only faint smudges in the fine layer of dust that covers Stiles’ cheeks.

“We’re all orphans,” Derek silences him, “In one way or the other we all are.”

The mismatched group of teenagers that had become his pack are no longer children. The Croatoan virus had seen to that.

Over at the fence Scott has appeared and scuffles closer, sinking to the ground directly next to his best friend. They aren’t looking at each other, but Scott tilts his leg until his knee is touching the other boy’s. It isn’t much and not nearly enough, but at least Stiles doesn’t pull away.

“McCall’s mom took the bite,” Jackson muses. He still calls him McCall as if it were his last anchor to their old lives. And maybe it is. His parents, his adoptive parents, had died during the earliest wave of the infections that swept through Beacon Hills, killed by the first croats. It hadn’t exactly improved his overall attitude.

The others remain silent. Derek and Isaac had already lost their families a long time ago; they were no strangers to this kind of pain. Erica wasn’t much better off either. Her mother had left Beacon Hills along with her boyfriend in hopes of finding a safe haven somewhere else, leaving behind her daughter who refused to abandon her pack.

Pack is all they have now. Few objected to be turned once they had figured out that it was probably their only chance of survival. Danny is one of them. Sheriff Stilinski had been another. And now he was dead.

Derek was the one who had found him. But Derek had also been the one who had approached him after their latest scouting and told him that he stank of infection. Once it is in your blood it doesn’t take long. They all know that.

So the Sheriff had looked at him for a long moment, stoic and unflinching and then nodded. Derek had placed the bullet in his hand and left. The Sheriff – who would always be the Sheriff, even though the police department had long since ceased to exist – deserved to do this on his own, deserved to die in dignity.

Stiles had received the news much like his father had. Stoic, hard-faced. Derek only hopes he won’t use the very same shotgun to put a bullet through his own head.

 

They burn their dead, just to make sure. It makes Derek sick to know that even now he doesn't get to bury those he considers family. On some days the taste of ashes never quite leaves his tongue.

 

They live in the mall. Lydia’s idea. She says that as a little girl she had always wanted to spend a night in the mall, surrounded by pretty dresses ad mannequins. Now she is there all of the time, but it isn’t exactly a dream come true. Still it offers most of what they need. Enough space for all of them, lattices to keep out croats – and even a small medical station.

“Hey, baby,” Scott coos, pulling Allison into his arms, before he sweeping down and planting a kiss on her swollen belly, “And hey, baby #2.”

“And I hope it will stop at two for a while,” Melissa chides with a wry grin, gently whacking him on the back of his head, “I won’t be the one changing all those diapers.”

“Okay, okay,” Scott swats her hand away and then adds, “Grandma.”

“Allison, I swear if you give birth to another one like him, you can look for a different babysitter,” Melissa warns, putting away her stethoscope.

“Strangely enough, everyone has been saying that lately,” Allison laughs, pressing her forehead against Scott’s.

“Hey,” he starts to complain but she shuts him up with another kiss which easily distracts him. Derek smiles from where he is leaning against the threshold. Some things never change.

“Derek,” a voice calls out and when he glances over his shoulder he sees Jackson approaching, Danny by his side.

“Can we talk to you for a moment?” Jackson asks and Derek nods, “Sure. What is it?”

The two young men exchange a nervous look before Danny swallows and turns to face the alpha.

“I want the bite,” Danny says.

 

There was a truce first. Werewolves accepting the help of the hunters and vice versa. Before they knew what was happening a trinity had developed: Derek Hale, Chris Argent – and John Stilinski.

And now a third of the little bit of steadiness, of reassurance they had gained is breaking apart as well.

 

“The kid’s gonna be a werewolf,” Chris says.

Derek inclines his head, “Most likely. As tenacious as you Argents are, I kind of doubt that’ll be enough to override wolf genetics.”

Chris chuckles dryly, “To think that my wife died for being a werewolf, and now my grandchild is going to be one… I guess that’s what they call irony.”

For a moment they sit in silence.

“Stilinski was a good man,” Chris says.

“He was,” Derek agrees quietly.

“I held great respect for him,” Chris continues, “Great admiration. The way he handled this entire… situation. Without him half of us would have been dead within the first three months.”

This time Derek only grunts in response. There is nothing to add.

“He always accepted himself for who he was. He lived a human, he died a human,” Chris rubs his knuckles over the stubble on his chin, “I want to do the same.”

“There’s no shame in it,” Derek points out, “I respected his decision, I’ll respect yours.”

“I’m a hunter,” Chris tells him what they both knew too well, “My whole family. For centuries. But my only child is the wife of a wolf. And she will be the mother of one. If you think about it, for a few short moments she even was the daughter of one.”

“Yeah, well, at least she didn’t hit it off with a croat,” Derek says because what the fuck is it with this sudden heartfelt conversation? The other man, however, throws his head back and laughs. Derek can’t quite decide whether it sounds genuine.

Chris Argent pushes out of his chair, clapping a hand on the alpha’s back.

“You’re a good man as well, Derek,” he admits, “A good leader. I’ll die like Stilinski did. But you won’t. Scott won’t. I don’t want my grandchild to grow up without a mother.”

A beat of silence, a moment of held breath.

“Once the baby is born, you’ll turn Allison.”

Derek doesn’t object.

 

Derek doesn't miss luxury, doesn't miss the comforts of an easy life that all the others around him had always taken for granted. But Derek had gone from living in a shabby apartment in New York, to haunting the burnt out shell of his childhood home turned family grave to setting up his hideout in an abandoned warehouse. He's been sleeping on dingy mattress for ages.

Whenever he now lies in the dark of his private room in the mall he closes his eyes to listen to the breathing and heartbeats of the other people in the building, overcome by a curious sense of calm underlaid with profound anxiety for all those lives that depend on him.

 

As the firstborn Laura had always been expected to one day become the alpha, Derek being raised as her second in command so to speak, much like Uncle Peter had been for their father.

Gasoline, fate and Kate Argent had changed things a bit. Croatoan changed the rest.

And now, at age twenty-five, Derek found himself to be the alpha of a pack that consisted of 67 people, nearly half of which are werewolves. And they all look towards him for guidance.

The worst thing about the virus wasn’t even the death toll, but the confusion, the uncertainty. No one quite knew who was dead, who was missing, who had been turned. Lydia’s father had been abroad when it started; she would never see him again. That slimy Chemistry teacher, Mr. Harris, had turned and killed five people before he could be taken down. For a while Boyd had been getting news from his older sister over in Boston, but that stopped months ago.

They don’t dare to leave Beacon Hills, can’t afford it. They need all the manpower they have to protect their small group of survivors. There used to be other people who fought for themselves, citizens who somehow had managed to elude the croats and hide away. Derek’s pack would sometimes come across them on scouting missions, but they refused to join them. The last of those encounters had been around what once used to be summer holidays. Derek doubts that they would meet anyone else again. Not here, in this small, unimportant town.

Humans are a dying breed. The Sheriff is dead. Danny has taken the bite and two weeks before him it had been Thomas and Kelly. Argent was right. In this world humans either died of starvation or by willingly putting a bullet through their heads.

It was weird to think that Argents who hunted and the werewolves who hunted were suddenly being hunted by the same thing. Weird to think that where once they had fought about who deserved to live, the croats had appeared and made it all irrelevant.

 

The irony is that Derek had always thought a big pack would make him strong. Now that he's alpha of possibly the biggest werewolf pack to ever exist in the past three-hundred years, he doesn't feel strong at all.

 

He is well aware of the fact that most of the humans in their tribe don’t trust him.

They depend on him and accept him as a capable leader, but they don’t trust him.

They don’t really trust Chris Argent either. He’s still a stranger in this small town that used to be so peaceful, so steady, so unchangeable just a few years ago. Only a handful know the full story, the truth about how Kate Argent set fire to the Hale house and how Peter Hale sought bloody revenge. If they did, they’d probably question Chris’ and Derek’s decisions even more.

They used to trust the Sheriff, though. The Sheriff was what kept them together, what made people hope and carry on. The Sheriff was a symbol of strength and endurance. He was the guiding light in Beacon’s Hills tower.

Now that he was dead their careful balance would be disturbed. They needed someone like him, someone who had lived in the town before werewolves and hunters and croats had started to wreak havoc.

But of their old government, of the police department, of every genereally recognized institution, everyone was either dead or had accepted the bite. They need a human, however, a familiar face, to become the Sheriff’s legacy. Derek knows whom he is going to choose before he has consciously thought of the question.

His feet carry him to the small hardware store where the Stilinskis had taken up their residence all those months ago.

 

“Stiles,” Derek says without intonation, still figuring out whether to do this as a friend or as the alpha, “I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

The boy (not really, not any longer) looks up from where he is crouched on the mattress on the floor, reading a book. He snaps it shut, jerking his head up.

“Sure,” he answers, though he does not sound overly enthusiastic, “Mi casa es tu casa. Or rather, mi cama es tu cama. Though that’s… uh, that’s not a line to invite you into my bed. You can take the chair, too. Or the table. Or just stand in the door.”

Derek rolls his eyes, steps into the room and sits down next to him. Stiles’ shoulders slump a bit in resignation, “Or bed is good, yeah.”

“You okay?” Derek asks because it’s only been two days since the Sheriff’s death and because he has no social skills whatsoever.

Stiles huffs a brittle laugh, “Not really, no.”

Derek runs a hand through his hair. It’s grimy and disgusting and he seriously needs to wash up. They always have enough water to get by, but that doesn’t mean anyone gets a weekly bubble bath. Bubble baths, however, are not even among the top ten of the things he misses.

Right now, for example, he misses the ability to give people what they need, what they want to hear. He’s lost all of his family and basically knows that there are no proper words to console a grieving child. He still wishes he could do better.

“You okay here, though?” he makes a vague gesture to indicate the entirety of the store, of the small space Stiles has shared with his dad. He remembers how the kid had always berated him for returning to the burnt Hale house, claiming that it was only an anchor for painful memories. Derek wants to do the same now, wants to convince Stiles of moving somewhere else although this is not the room where the Sheriff shot himself. But Stiles is all alone now and he’s never been the sort of person who’s dealt with being on his own overly well.

“Dunno,” Stiles scrubs his palms over his face, “It sucks. But… it’s still kinda home.”

It’s not. This mall is their refuge, their safe haven. But it’ll never be home.

“So, what did ya want?” Stiles asks, obviously wanting to change the subject. But Derek can’t quiet grand him that favor.

“You’re a Stilinksi,” he says because he is stupid, “The last one.”

Again that fragile laugh, “Yeah. Right back at ya, last of the Hales.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Derek lets out a slow breath through his nose, “You’re the Sheriff’s son.”

And just like that Stiles shutters off, gaze fixed on the grubby floor “Yeah, well. Very observant of you.”

“The people know you,” Derek adds, undeterred; this is going to hurt either way, “They trust you.”

But Stiles still refuses to face him again, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re their definition of what’s normal. Of what’s familiar,” Derek is really trying to get his point across but can’t quite find the right words, “You’re consistency.”

“So?”

“We want you on the team. Argent and I.”

“What team-?” Stiles starts but then his face clears in realization, “Oh… Yeah, what? Why would you think that’s a good idea?”

“Because I know you,” Derek answers and yeah, that’s probably a lame explanation, “I know you’d be able to handle it. The tribe needs a human to-“

“They have Chris,” Stiles cuts him off.

“Well, if you ask me being an Argent only partially qualifies you as a human,” Derek piques, his frustration growing. But Stiles actually laughs.

“Why ask me, though? Why not, dunno, Lydia or something? God knows we could need some girl power.”

“Lydia is strong,” Derek agrees, “But only on the outside. If she weren’t immune she would’ve taken the bite in a heartbeat. You’re different.”

Stiles looks at him with big eyes, searching, questioning, “What makes you think that? Maybe I’m only putting on a brave face. Maybe I’m this close to breaking.”

“If you were you’d have already killed yourself or asked me to turn you.”

“What, that’s a sign of weakness now?”

“No. But you want to stay human. Argent is human out of spite, out of his own prideful convictions. You, though, you stay human because you can feel that it’s right for you, that’s you don’t have to change. You enjoy being who you are, even amidst this whole chaos.”

“Wow,” Stiles looks pensive for a moment, “I think this is the first time in ever that you have spoken more than me.”

“What do you expect?” Derek awkwardly aims for a joking tone, “The end of the world is coming. I gotta catch up.”

“You really think that?” Stiles asks, completely ignoring that it wasn’t supposed to be serious, “That this is the end of the world?”

Derek’s shoulders tense, then slump, “I don’t know. What else would it be?”

“So it’s all in vain?” Stiles continues, “Our survival? Scott’s and Allison’s baby? There’s not gonna be a second chance? We’re just gonna die either way?”

“I’m not all-knowing,” Derek replies even if in moments like this he somehow wishes he were, “I only know as much as you do.”

“Then how do you keep going?” Stiles looks at him in askance, “How did you before?”

“For the pack. For always hoping,” Derek shrugs, “Maybe we’ll get that second chance after all. But we won’t ever know if we give up halfway through.”

“Hm,” Stiles makes a non-committal sound. For a few minutes they sit in silence, just like Derek and Argent had done two nights ago, but much more at ease, much more comfortable.

“Alright,” Stiles says finally, “You can count me in.”

“What convinced you?” Derek asks though he already knows the answer.

Stiles smiles hesitantly, “My dad would’ve wanted me to.”

 

Stiles does not take to it gracefully. Then again, grace is not something Derek asks of him.

There is no official election, no formal announcement. Stiles still flails around a lot and talks a bit too much, but when he fluidly takes over his father’s duties no one questions it. He does a good job, better than anyone could have ever expected. Stiles is the Sheriff’s son, not in manner or demeanor, but in the willingness to bear responsibility, the way he squares his shoulders and knows what people need of him. He’s always had that, Derek realizes and marvels a little.

Maybe their tribe saw it coming, too. The pack, obviously, has no objections, but they have, after all, a special connection to Derek. He has become a proper alpha and they rarely question his decisions. And Stiles has been there from the very beginning. Scott’s second in command, and him and his best friend have always been a double deal.

Derek had thought that the humans – who had been forced together by necessity – would have a hard time accepting this kid as one of their leaders, as their superior. But they take orders and advice from Stiles, even if they are forty years his senior, even if they had no idea who he was before Croatoan appeared.

But then again, Stiles has never just been the Sheriff’s kid or Scott’s blood brother. He’s always been his own person.

 

They all have their duties. Lydia haughtily calls them her worker bees while she sits in the middle of it all, the Queen Bee, assigning tasks and watching everything unfold.

She works out what they need, which provisions they have to stock up on. She used to write them some sort of shopping list, only that it meant they were looting abandoned buildings on their scouting missions. Nowadays the list is short. Everything, Lydia has started to mutter in resignation, shaking her head, we need everything.

 

Later on Derek won't be able to recall how on earth he had managed to forget that for all the good qualities that Stiles shared with is father, he also shared all the worst. The hero-complex. The throwing all caution in the wind once it seems like a good idea to risk your own life. And most of all the stubbornness.

The Sheriff had always insisted on accompanying all the raid and scouting missions. Not even Argent was that stupid. He joined the group quite often, but not all of the time, because he was no fucking werewolf and thus not immune. Leaving the sanctuary of the mall was an acute risk for all humans.

Last time it had cost the Sheriff his life.

Now was their first raid since his death – and Stiles had set his mind on coming along.

“I haven't left the mall in half a year,” he points out, just short of stomping his foot, “You can't make me one of the big guys and then not let me do any of the adult stuff.”

“This is not a game, Stiles,” Derek forces himself to stay calm. For all Stiles's childish demeanor, he is right. Derek had chosen him to be part of the trinity – ordering him around would defeat the purpose.

“Only one splatter of blood,” he begins, but is immediately cut off.

“I know, Derek,” Stiles says, his eyes hard, “I know, okay? But I've worked out this plan. I can't just expect you guys to do all the work. I never have.”

He hasn't. He threw molotov cocktails, drove getaway cars, broke into buildings, figured out mountain ash and fired weapons long before Croatoan happened. He got threatened, kidnapped, beaten up, knocked out, paralyzed and trapped in a pool without anyone worrying about the fact that he was only human. He could have died a hundred times before. Derek has no right to deny him now.

“Alright,” he agrees and means it.

Stiles's face softens into a small smile, before he nods and climbs into the car.

 

But Derek should have know that it would end like this. It always does for him. With the Sheriff he lost a good friend, and now he's going to lose Stiles, too.

 

Something went wrong. They got separated from the group.

Technically, Stiles got separated from the group because he could simply not run that fast, but Derek was the one to notice and actually run back.

Now they are backed up in a dead-end of some narrow alley, seven croats edging in on them and how much more horror movie-cliche is this gonna get?

“Up,” Derek hisses, pushing at Stiles's ass to make him climb up the dumpster before jumping after him. It's not much of an advantage, croats are tenacious, even if not overly smart at this level.  _This_  level meaning that they've already been mindless, blood-thirsty creatures for months, their clothes dirty and torn, their faces in permanent grimaces of agony and anger.

Derek doesn't look into their eyes. He never does anymore. He used to, though, trying to figure out whether there was anything redeemable about them, any hint that they might be saved. When they are first infected and only smell a little off, they act it all out beautifully. Once the virus really sets in, though, their hearts beat too slowly, too steady, too sure, pumping hot, sick blood through their veins.

So instead of looking into their bright, dead eyes, he concentrates on that. He can hear them now, seven perfect heartbeats, right in front of him, coming closer and closer, and Stiles, a frantic fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird, moving backwards mid-flight.

Derek is moving with him, until their shoulders bump together and he can feel the cold bricks of the wall behind them at his back. He doesn't have to glance over to know that when Stiles opens his mouths he wants to say something, but only little breathless huffs come out.

He probably wants to say 'I'm sorry' or 'This is my fault', but it isn't, not really, not when Derek is the one who made him trinity, when he thrust all that responsibility on him because himself couldn't bear it, indirectly making him want to prove his worth.

“I'm gonna fight my way out,” Derek says, “Stay back.”

It probably sounds a lot worse than intended. Like he is going to leave Stiles behind as easy prey to get away more quickly. What he means is that Stiles should stay back so he won't be exposed to the blood. One single splatter and-

“Scott and I always watched those horror movies and envisioned the zombie apocalypse,” Stiles says quietly, “Never quite thought it’d come true. Then again I never really expected werewolves to pop up like mushrooms everywhere.”

It takes a moment for Derek to swallow the lump in his throat and finally turn his head to glance over.

“If it’s any consolation, I didn’t really expect you to pop up in my life either,” he admits and doesn’t even mean it as a joke, but Stiles smiles anyway, so it’s alright.

The croats must enjoy terrifying them, must enjoy letting them suffer through this moment, because they have stopped a safe three meters away.

“I'm all out of ammo,” Stiles says matter-of-factly, “Even if we do get out-”

Derek doesn't want him to finish that sentence. He doesn't want to put another name on the list of people who trusted him and whom he inevitably disappointed. People who died because of him. So he shuts him up.

He can feel the barrel of Stiles' empty gun digging into his side, the fingers of his other hand on his right shoulder, can feel the hummingbird beating its wings even more frantically against his chest, but most of all he feels Stiles' hot, heavy breath against his mouth, his lips that only a second later respond as if they were expecting this all along.

Derek pulls back and roughly pushes him away and against the wall, sending him a withering glare.

“You're not going to die in some dark back-alley,” he growls and turns back to the croats, “You're not going to die, period.”

If this were a setting for a death scene in a horror movie, it'd be pretty cheap, he thinks absent-mindedly. Adding a first kiss in front of seven killer zombies would probably turn it into a persiflage. Derek is surprised that his life still surprises him.

There is another surprise, though, when suddenly something drops from the sky and a female voice cries, “Close your eyes, boys!”

Luckily, Derek recognizes the voice to be Erica's and the dropping thing to be a Molotov cocktail, so he spins around to shield his face and Stiles' body. The explosion and the pitiful screams of the croats resound in his ears, but Stiles is a reassuring warmth against him, even as a second  _boom_ follows.

The screeching of wheels joins in and echoes along the walls as Jackson's Porsche comes speeding down the alley, carelessly running over two of the screeching croats.

Stiles is the first to react, pushing against Derek's shoulder, jumping down the dumpster and hightailing towards the car. Derek is after him in a second, sparing the croats only a passing glance. They're as good as done for, the burn wounds having the additional advantage that barely any blood is spilled.

When he slides onto the passenger seat of the Porsche, Jackson has already put it in reverse and his slamming his foot down onto the gas pedal before Derek has even closed the door.

“Where-” he wheezes, out of breath and full of adrenaline, but Jackson obviously expects the question.

“Isaac and Erica climbed the roof to drop the bombs,” he answers, skillfully spinning the steering wheel and thus the entire car around, making Stiles on the backseat slide from left to right, “Some quick thinking on her part. Boyd's already waiting with the other car to pick them up.”

“The medicine-” Stiles piques up and Jackson throws him a dark look via the rear-view mirror, “And yes, we've got the fucking medicine, Stilinski.”

Leave it to Stiles to think of their loot before considering his own health.

It takes another three minutes and actually laying eyes on Isaac, Boyd and Erica, before a sense of relief floods Derek's system, followed by immense exhaustion.

He slumps down in his seat, closes in eyes and only listens to the powerful thrum of the engine. That, and the hummingbird behind him, just a few inches out of reach.

 

Derek doesn't let himself think about how many families were ripped apart in the aftermath of Croatoan, how many kids were orphaned, how many spouses widowed, how many parents lost their children. Instead of looking at his tribe and counting their indefinite losses and measuring their endless pain, he focuses on what they have found. Bobby Finstock got back with his ex-wife. Lydia has a functioning relationship with her mother, Christ Argent has a werewolf for a son-in-law and does not want to kill him. Scott is going to be a father. Okay, so maybe you could argue about the latter being a good point, but still. It was just that Derek never even thought of finding anything like that for himself.

 

“So what was that about?” Stiles asks later on when they are safely back at the mall, when the excitement has settled down and the fear in only nagging at the corners of Derek's consciousness.

He doesn’t look at Stiles, concentrating on dismantling his weapons, “What do you mean?”

He's good at denial, always has been, better than at addressing the things that really keep his thoughts running suicides inside of his skull.

“Oh, c’mon, don’t play stupid with me,” Stiles leans against the table, casual and confident, much too cocky for someone who just a few hours ago was prepared to uselessly die like the extra in some lame horror flick.

Only that those extras usually tended to scream and yell for help a lot, yet walking blindly into their gruesome demise. Stiles, though, had been dreadfully calm, and that scared Derek like nothing else. Because it had been the same calm the Sheriff had shown on his last day, this readiness and acceptance. Derek has always worn his own outward indifference like a shield, like an armor that protected him. For the longest time, his own life had been more about pure survival than anything else and he had envied the Sheriff's knowledge of having lived his life in a way that made it okay to end it early. John Stilinki had died with many regrets. But Derek is living with his own.

“So what was is?” Stiles wants to know, interrupting his musing and chewing on his lower lip, maybe after all a sign of insecurity, “Just some weird hormones in the face of death? As in, quickly hooking up with someone before you die?”

There had been adrenaline, Derek cannot deny that. He doesn't really know what had made him act like that, had made him think that this was a thing he had to do before it was somehow to late. Perhaps he hadn't wanted to live with yet another regret.

Stiles is still waiting for a reply, but Derek doesn’t answer, quietly cleaning the barrel of his saw-off.

“Because the way I see it,” the boy continues and steps closer, “With Croatoan around we’re always in the face of death. Get what I’m saying?”

Derek still remains silent. But when he finally puts down his weapons, he does so to pull Stiles in for another kiss.

 

Scott is playing his guitar, fingers moving steadily over the strings, singing some inane song about sunshine and his friends, just slightly off key, his eyes fixed on Allison who is singing as well, her voice softer and more melodious, her palm tracing gentle patters over her belly, heavy with child.

Two years ago a sight like this would have made Derek gag. Now it makes him smile. This kid will be the first born werewolf other than him. When his insane uncle ran wild and bit some unassuming teenager in the woods, no one could have ever imagined that it would one day come to this.

Considering the circumstances they live in – and the causes that forced them into these circumstances – Derek knows he shouldn't be smiling more than he did before Croatoan. He catches sight of Stiles being wrestled down by a laughing Isaac, Lydia making a wry comment from the sidelines, and thinks that maybe the others feel something similar.

 

Derek checks in with Danny who is supervising the new reinforcements for their fence, standing at the edge of the roof to oversee the whole parking lot.

The croats rarely ever come this close to the tribe's territory, but Derek still has nightmares about a sudden attack, about them climbing the walls, smashing in the windows. They've got guards posted at all hours of the day, barbed wire everywhere and even some landmines.

One day they will run out of ammo, out of explosives, out of food, out of medicine, out of will to fight. Today is not that day.

“Move your ass, Jackson!” Danny calls out, a slight frown creasing his forehead, “You're not getting paid for lazing around.”

“I'm not getting paid anyway!” Jackson yells back, making a point of crossing his arms in front of his chest.

“Come on, I wanna see that cute bum shaking,” Danny teases, trying to keep his voice stern although a brief grin steals across his face, “Don't make me pinch it to get you going.”

“You don't get to order me around,” Jackson replies haughtily, “And your gay doesn't scare me.”

“Move your ass, Jackson,” Derek interferes, because he  _does_  get to order Jackson around and he enjoys seeing him jump, “Or I'll get down there and threaten you with  _my_  gay.”

Boyd and Alfred are howling with laughter as Jackson hurries to grab the roll of wire fence and climb on the ladder.

“Your gay, huh?" Danny echoes with a cocked eyebrow and a sidelong glance, as his alpha perches next to him.

But Derek only shrugs one shoulder, “It made him do it, didn't it?”

“It seems to make different people do a lot of different things,” Danny muses knowingly but is smart enough to leave it at that and only smirk a little. Derek can't really fault him for it.

 

It's late a night but Derek is still awake when, amidst the familiar rhythm of breathing and heartbeats, he is alerted to the sound of something soft, yet heavy being dragged across the ground outside the mall's shopping aisle toward his abode. He rolls over and listens more attentively, trying to figure out whether whatever it is might pose a threat. Actually, it sounds a bit like someone hauling a body along, but unless Danny has finally gotten fed up with Jackson's shit and decided to put his new supernatural powers to good use, there is no reason for any of them to kill each other.

When the figure finally appears and stops in front of the door to what used to be a boutique for lingerie, the door to Derek's shelter, his not-quite-home, he is only vaguely surprised to see the familiar outline of the face shrouded in darkness.

“Care for a roommate?” Stiles asks, pushing the door open, and when Derek merely grunts in response he proceeds to drag his mattress into the room and let it flop down next to the werewolf's.

Neither of them says another word, but Derek discovers that at night even Stiles' heartbeat can be calm and, this close, unexpectedly soothing. If it happens to speed up a little when Stiles slides his leg over until his foot is touching Derek's, then that's perfectly alright.

 

“Stiles, stop wolfing down your food like that,” Lydia admonishes with a pinched expression, “Even if you live among wolves, it is not recommendable to behave like one.”

“Bu' Sco's eatin' like tha', 'oo!” Stiles complains around a mouthful of spagetti, making his best friend give him a betrayed look, though he doesn't object verbally because he actually does have at least as many noodles shoved down his throat.

“Scott is, in fact, a wolf,” Lydia says disdainfully, “And he is a married man. If anything the duty to remind her husband of table manners should fall to Allison.”

“I married him to raise his kid, not to raise him,” Allison lifts her hands in defense and offers Lydia an innocent smile, “Maybe you should talk to Melissa.”

“No' ma' mom!” Scott yelps, half of the food falling from his mouth while the other half almost makes him choke. Fortunately Allison takes pity and efficiently whacks him on the back.

“I'm not married, though,” Stiles points out, “You're not my wife. You don't get to tell me how to eat my food.”

Derek tries not to dwell on the fact that Stiles doesn't have any parents to tell him either.

“Eat your food, Stiles,” he orders, not looking up from his own plate, “And try to chew while you do so.”

“We're not married either, dude,” Stiles huffs.

“But I'm your alpha and if you don't obey I'll hang you on the flagpole and laugh at you for two hours straight.”

“Like you would last two minutes,” Stiles mumbles, but does continue to eat in a more orderly fashion.

They all stare a little when Derek actually starts laughing right then and there.

Stiles is right, though. He doesn't last two minutes. But he still feels pleasantly exhausted afterwards.

 

There’s a lot of passion in their love, but also a lot of calm. They are not frantic the way Derek might have thought  
He doesn’t date well which is okay because they can’t go to the movies or for a stroll in the park either way.

Most of the time they sit next to each other while they mend the tears in their clothes, talking about which films they loved as children. Stiles quotes fantasy novels and Derek quietly sings his favorite passages of some rock ballad Stiles never heard before.

It’s okay. Stiles doesn’t demand much, no special treatment, no increased amount of attention. Derek wonders why he never tried this before.

Sometimes, though, they climb to the roof of the mall and lie star-gazing, pressed up close and not saying a word. Without the city lights, without the smog the sky is much clearer, the star shine more vibrant. It should be beautiful but even in moments like these it only serves as a painful reminder.

So Derek buries his face against the side of Stiles' neck and doesn't talk about how he can always hear the croats roaring off in the distance.

 

The tribe basically only has two major forms of entertainment.

The children play hide and seek or tag in the many corners of the mall, or make up other games, but the adults are left to read through the books that are still to be found in the fortunately extensive bookstore.

The other thing is story-telling. They get together in bigger or smaller groups and tell the others what they remember.

Scott and Allison are famous for enacting fairy tales and their own romance, complete with hapless enchanted miller’s sons and kickass princesses. Coach Finstock varies between true stories and made up tales, twisting them so skillfully that not even the wolves can determine whether he is lying or not. Erica, often with the help of Body, knows truly frightening horror stories that leave the children (or some of the grown-ups) gasping for air.

It’s one of those evenings, a dry thunder storm raging outside, while Erica pitches her voice low and deep and Stiles his huddled up on a mountain of pillows, that Derek decides to join him, casually sliding an arm around his waist. No one comments or even raises an eyebrow, but Erica apparently delights in the way she can make Stiles jump and press closer into the warmth of Derek’s body.

 

Derek can’t see the end.

But when he was sixteen and his family burned, or a few years after that when his sister was cut in half, he hadn’t seen the end either. The end to pain and fear and self-blame.

It had always gotten a bit better, though, despite his doubts. Not really easier, but less choking, less constricting, until he was no longer only moving within the narrow space left for him. Back then he had built a life in New York, and then later gained a pack in Beacon Hills.

Now, even with Croatoan, he still has an entire tribe to take care of. And he has Stiles to sweeten the deal.

He isn’t fooling himself. It wasn’t fair trade. He would have preferred to live without the semi-apocalypse, even if Stiles’ had only remained a reluctant ally and sometimes-friend.

There is no way to change the past, though, so he’ll take what he’s given.

Stiles’ back quivers underneath his bare hand, smooth skin against the callouses of his palm, and Derek inhales and closes his eyes and thinks that maybe this isn’t the end yet either.

 

"Do you sometimes wonder whether it could have all been different?" Stiles murmurs afterwards, arms crossed behind his head and staring up at the ceiling, "Whether in some parallel universe someone made a decision that changed everything?"

"No," Derek lies curtly, glad that Stiles can’t hear his heart falter. The alternative would hurt too much.

 

Somewhere, in a parallel universe a few years back, someone  _does_  make a decision. He decides to keep fighting, to defy the odds, to change his fate.

Croatoan never happens. And Derek wakes up.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> The last stanza is about how in Supernatural Dean Winchester ultimately prevents Croatoan and the End 'verse never comes to be. I hinted at that so that this story would end on a lighter note, even if it's not exactly a happy ending.  
> Also, I realize that Jackson keeping the Porsche up and running is pretty unrealistic. But sue me, I like that car.  
> Hope you enjoyed. I definitely had fun writing it.


End file.
